


Anahatasana

by nicKnack22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Love, M/M, Meditation, Men of Letters Bunker, Sexual Fantasy, Soul Bond, Tantra, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heart Melting Pose.  Stimulates the heart chakra, the place where unconditional love is centered.  Focuses on connecting the body and spirit.  Opening the heart helps to deal with love, grief, anger, fears of betrayal, of loneliness, as well as the ability to heal ourselves and others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anahatasana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alullabytoleaveby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alullabytoleaveby/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my dearest alullabytoleaveby, I sincerely hope that your coming year is filled with all the love, joy, and awesome the world has to offer. <3

Cas turns one of the spare rooms in the bunker into a yoga/meditation retreat. Dean knows this because, after a week of Cas lugging around boxes, and weird relics, and a hammer, and fucking incense, Cas shows up in the kitchen, right side splattered liberally with blue paint, left side and hair speckled with gold, that Dean finally breaks down, slams his coffee cup on the table, and eloquently blurts out: 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Cas turns from his position at the sink, narrow-eyed, puzzled, clearly fucking offended, like Dean is the one behaving suspiciously and possibly carrying out some kind of bizarre and arcane ritual in the bowls of their secret society headquarters turned home sweet home. 

“I am ‘remodeling,’” he actually uses finger-quotes, which does absolutely nothing to help Dean translate those words into something that actually makes sense.

When Dean only blinks stupidly, Cas rolls his eyes, and sighs, “Sam said that I could requisition of one of the spare rooms for use as a space for meditation and meditative arts.”

“Oh,” is Dean’s incredibly articulate response. 

Cas goes from frustrated to self-conscious relatively quickly, “Of course, if you’re not comfortable with this I can certainly—”

“No, no, man, sure, whatever you want,” Dean sputters, “It’s not like there aren’t like a hundred extra rooms in this place…Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Cas frowns, tilts his head to the side, and then smiles, very, very small, “Gracias por tu hospitalidad.”

“Sure, yeah,” Dean continues, rubbing his neck, “Just, ah, let me know if you, ah, need any help or whatever.”

Cas smiles again, more brightly this time, before taking a coffee can filled with water and a ridiculously sharp paring knife back to his pet project, leaving Dean wondering why the fuck Cas told Sam first, and why the fuck he cares.

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Dean creepily follows the progress of Cas’ remodeling from afar. He pulls the kind of bullshit that would make the Pink Panther proud: peering from behind corners and lurking around doorways. Christ, he really should be better at this. 

He never directly interjects into the proceedings; instead he watches with wide eyes while Cas lugs some weird bronze statue through the hallways one Wednesday afternoon, frowns spectacularly when Cas shows up to dinner on Thursday night with purple blooming beneath his thumb and splinters imbedded in his forefingers (Dean helps to extract them after dessert, interrupts Cas’ inept fumbling with a pair of tweezers, swats away his protests, and proceeds to apply Iodine and Neosporin—cause you never know what shitty microbes are living on this old Men of Letters crap—and Batman bandaids because Cas deserves Batman bandaids, okay?). Dean gazes on fondly when, on Friday, Cas takes his place on the couch, hair still damp from his shower, but with a stubborn streak of ochre colored paint smeared along his forearm. He pointedly doesn’t ask on Saturday when Cas stumbles into the War Room, coated in dust, asking if anyone had seen the masking tape. 

Cas doesn’t ask for Dean’s help, and Dean doesn’t offer it again after that first time. He knows that he could, the words are there, ever ready on his tongue, but they always gets stuck there, like peanut butter on the roof of his mouth, keeping his mouth dry and his jaw shut tight. 

Sam takes it all in stride. He’s supportive of Cas’ project. They apparently went to Home Depot together to pick out fucking paint swatches. Dean can just imagine them in the aisle debating the pros and cons of marigold versus sunflower yellow—he snorts derisively, but he wishes that he had been invited, and wonders, bitterly and against his will, why he wasn’t. 

¬¬¬¬  
Sam is the type of fitness freak that actually likes to go for long runs. What used to be a sporadic affliction has become a chronic illness now that they’ve got a permanent residence. Instead of every couple days when there aren’t too many open wounds and they haven’t pulled three all nighters in a row, Sam rises early every morning to stretch his legs. He treats running like a religion. He worships the pavement at the crack of dawn with his Under Armour and his Adidas sneakers, coming back after an hour or a couple miles (whichever comes first) dripping sweat and asking Dean if they have any kale. Dean rolls his eyes, calls Sam the Jolly Green Giant, and forks over the smoothie he’s already made. 

When Cas had first come, well, home (that’s how Dean thinks about the moment that Cas had shown up on their doorstep, rumpled and tired and totally human even if he never actually refers to it as such outside the privacy of his own thoughts), he would join Sam on his runs sometimes. He was adamant about the fact that, while he was human, he was not weak. He wanted to maintain his strength, his ability to defend himself, protect the Winchesters, contribute. He never put it exactly like that, but the determination in his eyes and the stubborn set to his jaw as he laced up his sneakers every morning spoke volumes. Dean personally thought it was Cas’ way of working out some frustration and getting to know his own limits. He worried about them both when they left. Worried about Sam having a fainting spell on the side of the highway, pushing too hard too soon after the trials. Worried about Cas pulling a Forrest Gump, hitting the town limits of Lebanon and deciding it wasn’t far enough, that no where would ever be far enough. He keeps his worries to himself. Channels his anxieties into making fruit smoothies and vegetarian omelets and whole-wheat toast, occupying his hands, and giving his family an incentive to come home again and stay. 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

Once the room is finished, Cas ditches running with Sam. Not completely—he still sometimes heads out in the morning with his brightly colored running shoes (a frankly hideous combination of lime green and hot pink) and a ratty old t-shirt. More often than not though, these days, he retreats back to his room instead, in the morning, at the night. Sometimes both.

Sam joins him every so often. 

“Good for the body, good for the soul,” he shrugs at Dean, smiling ruefully, “For the mind anyway.”

“You’re always welcome to join us,” Cas offers, his eyes laser focused and bright.

Dean squirms under the scrutiny. 

Dean’s relationship with yoga is…complicated. His introduction to the fine art happened in his early twenties when he went on five-day, five states road trip, and instead ended up meeting a yoga teacher with whom he had the bendiest weekend of his life. It was fucking awesome, and, Dean quickly decided that yoga was the shit if it made for such mind-blowing sex. 

Afterwards, he associated yoga with Lisa, and that only became more intense and more complex when he was with her during that year, the one that he doesn’t talk about, tries not to think about. She was bendy as hell, still, but she was also kind and smart, dedicated to her students and her work. He went to one of her classes once; she thought that it might help him, in the early days when he was still a fucking wreck over Sam, and he wanted to make her happy, so he tagged along. 

He’d sucked, to be honest: that shit was harder than it looked. Sweaty, sore, and more stressed than when he’d started, he spent the final few minutes of the session being gawped at, interrogated, and groped by the middle aged ladies in the class, who were more than curious about Lisa’s ‘handsome young beau.’ He was intensely uncomfortable and it more or less turned him off a repeat experience. Lisa had supported him in that. Said they would look for another way to help him relax, work through things. He was thankful that she didn’t push him. 

Yoga will always be mixed up with memories of Lisa, bittersweet and painful. Yoga alone with Cas or Sam just sounds terrifying.

So, he turns down their offer. Sam makes sure to let him know that it’s an open invite, chalking Dean’s refusal to the same open disgust that he has for exercise in general (“if I’m running down the street there’d better be a fucking hungry Wendigo on my ass,” he’d said the last time that Sam had asked him to go for a run). Cas gives Dean a look that is soft and a little too understanding, but he doesn’t say anything at all. 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Dean sees the room for the first time about a month after its finished. Sam is cataloguing some stuff in the archives, and Cas is working in the garden (Cas, as it turns out, likes to commune with nature—it’s not really that surprising, given the whole bee fixation he’d had a few years ago). Dean wanders the halls of the bunker for a while before ending up in front of the door to Cas’ little haven. It’s closed, but not locked, and Dean hesitates on the threshold, his hand hovering just above the doorknob, wondering if this counts as trespassing. 

He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks inside. The first thing he notices is the smell: rich, earthy. Sandalwood, pine, patchouli, jasmine, cedar, a slightly salty, musky undertone of sweat. Cas carries these scents around with him, caught in his hair, the hems of his clothes, his skin, but they’re magnified here. It’s a heady aroma, and it blankets the room, blankets Dean when he steps inside. 

Dean hits the light. The walls are a vibrant gold, bronze, with darker swirls of copper. The colors are layered, uneven, interspersed, whirled and spattered with broad strokes and speckled drops that stand out, textured, against the wall. There are flecks of brown and hints of the ochre that Cas had worn on the skin of his forearm for a week after painting. It makes the room feel warm, beyond the temperature, makes it feel like Dean’s walked into the heart of a candle flame, flickering, bright. The floor is hardwood, polished, even. 

Dean spots the bronze statue that Cas had lugged from storage: a Hindu deity that Dean doesn’t recognize, but she smiles kindly at him from where she rests serenely in the far corner. There are three candles and a vase of flowers placed carefully at her feet. 

A tapestry in bright colors is draped against the far wall; a table sits across from the goddess statue. It’s low to the ground, made of dark wood, well cared for, and long. Dean peers at it carefully. There are candles of various colors and shapes laid out across its length at seemingly random intervals. Weird, almost incongruous, objects litter the table’s surface: a seashell, white and perfectly shaped, rests alongside three polished stones, smooth and rounded from river water. A statue of the Buddha sits next to an old wooden crucifix; there are two feathers beside a shallow bowl filled with what look like glass marbles. A small painting of intricate geometric designs in all different shades of blue, a star of David, a small figure carved of wood, it could be a man or an animal or something else all together, but the material has aged and its features are warped beyond recognition. There are things that Dean doesn’t recognize, sigils written out on scraps of paper, odd bits of fabric, pictures of gods and saints and creatures. Dean doesn’t touch any of it, is careful not to disturb, but he’s captivated by the amount of attention and time that Cas put into setting this up. It’s an altar, plain and simple, but where altars usually give him the creeps, this one surprisingly makes him feel calm, nostalgic even. Cas set up a table for anyone and everyone. You’re welcome to come and sit with us, join us, it seems to say, like making sure that you have an extra chair at the kitchen table ready for a guest in any circumstance. It’s like he took one of those new age, hippy COEXIST bumper stickers and brought it to life, only instead of some shallow bullshit, Cas fleshed it out, made it real, filled in all the gaps and stretched it to expand the globe. Dean likes it, and, despite himself, he smiles softly. He nods at the peaceful goddess statue and closes the door behind him when he goes. 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

The first time Dean does yoga with Cas, it’s about two months after the room is finished. It isn’t exactly a pre-meditated decision. 

He and Cas are doing the dinner dishes. Dean’s washing, Cas is drying, and they’ve got a steady, quiet, hell, comfortable rhythm going. It’s easy and relaxed. There’s jazz playing on the radio (because shotgun picks the music in the Impala, but house rules in the Bunker dictate the they all take turns choosing the radio station). It’s a moment that he once would have considered boring or annoying, some sort of death sentence of domesticity, but, honestly, Dean feels happier than he has in a long damn time. Happier than he ever expected to feel again. 

Dean passes a plate to Cas, squeaky clean and a little soapy, and their fingers brush. Dean looks up from their hands to find Cas wearing a soft, contented smile. His eyes are gentle, and Dean realizes with a surreal sense of clarity that Cas looks happy. It’s really, really good look on him, and Dean decides firmly and emphatically that Cas should look this way all the time, that he would kill for Cas to look this way all the time. 

It’s on the heels of this revelation that Dean says, “Are you doing the whole yoga thing tonight?”

Cas tilts his head and the corner of his mouth twitches like he finds something funny, “Yes.”

Dean relinquishes his grip on the plate, rubs the back of his neck with a hand that he quickly realizes is damp and covered in soap suds, and tries to regain some semblance of cool. 

“Can I, ah, I mean would you mind if I came with you?”

Smooth. Real fucking smooth. 

Cas’s eyes widen and the smile grows, “Dean, you know you’re always welcome to join me.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs.

Cas lays a hand, dry except for the places where Dean’s fingers brushed his, against Dean’s forearm, “I would be honored to practice with you.”

“That’s, ah, that’s great, Cas. Awesome.”

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Dean shows up for their ‘practice’ in a ratty pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He feels oddly vulnerable and naked, standing on the threshold, unsure of himself. It’s ridiculous really. Cas has seen Dean literally at his worst. The dude pulled his sorry demonic ass out of the fire, literally. There’s no reason to be fucking embarrassed. 

Cas sits near the small table. He’s lit all of the candles and they cast a rosy, golden glow, throwing shadows against the walls that shift and move. It intensifies the feeling of walking into the middle of a campfire. It’s welcoming and warm. 

Cas smiles at Dean from where he sits in the center of an orange yoga mat. He’s wearing loose cotton pants and his chest is bare. All the hollows and angles of his torso are in thrown into sharp relief illuminated and shadowed by the lights, and Dean quickly clears his throat and averts his gaze. 

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Cas says, and Dean snorts because that’s really helpful. 

Cas doesn’t get to his feet, he gestures instead to the mat lying perpendicular to his own. It’s dark grey with textured grooves in the surface that remind Dean of freshly laid asphalt. 

“Sam and I picked it out,” Cas says, “it’s yours if you want it.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He settles on ‘thank you,’ and takes his seat. 

Cas tells him they’re going to be doing something called Ashtanga to help him learn the basics, and they can branch out from there if Dean wants to continue. Dean just shrugs cause he can understand Latin better than whatever jibberish Cas just said. 

Yoga, as it turns out, is hard. It’s like a really freaking messed up game of Twister. Right foot, left hand, left foot, right hand, up, down, back, forth, over, under, twist, bend, fold. He’s supposed to be syncing his breath to his movements but he doesn’t’ understand how that’s possible given that he’s panting and gasping in all the wrong places and still doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough air. 

Cas demos postures with an ease of motion, fluidity, and balance that leaves Dean ogling, and almost face planting when they try something called a ‘half moon.’ It’s not embarrassing at all. 

Poses have weird names that make sense in neither Sanskrit nor English. DBy the time they make their way back down to the floor, Dean has soaked through his tshirt and Cas’s hair is damp. 

Dean takes the opportunity to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Cas grins at him beatifically.

“Is it okay for me to touch you?”

“What?” Dean squaks and almost pokes himself in the eye.

“In meditation,” Cas explains, “are you comfortable with me touching you. I don’t want to invade your ‘personal space.’”

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Dean clears his throat, “okay.”

“Lie down,” Cas says, “Close your eyes.”

Dean obeys. Cas moves around him. Dean only knows because he can hear the soft padding of his feet. 

“Relax, Dean,” Cas’ voice is close, deep and soothing, by Dean’s ear, “breathe.”

Dean does. 

The first touch of Cas’ fingers is shocking, even though Dean is expecting it. His fingertips are cooler than Dean would have thought. The room is warm, they’ve been moving almost nonstop for an hour, but Cas skin is cool and he applies a light pressure to Dean’s forehead—gentle press of his thumb right between Dean’s eyebrows. Dean exhales involuntarily, a deep release of air he didn’t know he’d been holding. All of his awareness zeros in to the pad of Cas’ thumb against his skin. Then its gone, but the sensation lingers, a phantom impression right between his eyes. Cas moves on. He presses both of his thumbs into Dean’s temples, the base of his skull, his shoulders, his elbows, and his wrists. 

“Breathe, Dean,” he whispers. In the darkness, Cas’ voice, his touch, are Dean’s only tethers to reality, “Relax, let go.” 

Dean listens, he follows. 

Cas tugs gently at each of Dean’s fingers, before pressing his thumbs firmly into the center of Dean’s palms. He lays a hand over Dean’s heart. He tugs Dean’s legs so that they lie straight and then he presses a thumb to each of Dean’s hip joints (by this point, Dean is too relaxed too spaced out, almost drugged on Cas touch, all the ghosts of his fingerprints across his body, to even flinch). Cas lays a hand on each of Dean’s knees, rubs a circle into each ankle, each toe, the soles of his feet. Dean thinks that he’s done, and somehow it’s okay. It’s okay for Cas to stop because Cas’ touch lingers, each fingerprint lies heavy on his body, he can feel them all, each and every one, but then Cas touches his forehead again, his thumb damp against Dean’s skin, sticky, and it smells like lemon, and flowers and something spicy.

“Just breathe, Dean,” Cas whispers, and Dean does. 

He comes out of it slowly, when Cas tells him to, stretching long, his spine popping. It’s like waking up from a really good night’s sleep on a memory foam mattress, or stepping into a hot shower where the water pressure is just right; it’s that feeling you get right after the first piece of pie, like, damn, that’s good, and everything is right with the world. 

Cas painted the ceiling, too, he realizes as his eyes readjust. It’s like the night sky. Dark blue, black, purple, speckled silver stars and flecks of green. It’s beautiful.

He sits up and blinks bemusedly at Cas, who smiles back at him, looking as content and relaxed as Dean feels, and Dean wonders, vaguely, why he waited so long to do this. 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

The next day, Dean’s whole body hurts. He hurts in places he didn’t know it was fucking possible to hurt. He limps to the kitchen where Sam is unfortunately waiting, all happy and on a post-running high. 

“Need a walker there, gramps?” he jokes.

“Ha-fucking-ha, hippie,” Dean roots around for coffee, while Sam laughs. 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Dean starts doing yoga with Cas three times a week. He sucks, but after a month he sucks less. He can do Sun Salutations (A and B variations, thank you very much) easily. Inhale up, exhale down, inhale up, exhale down, inhale up, exhale down, inhale up, and exhale back; hold; repeat. Dean likes Warrior Two, it’s like sword fighting, Warrior Three makes no sense unless you’re idea of warrior comes out of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. 

Cas talks about energy channels, about chakras, about wheels and colors and feelings. Dean imagines the chakras like clock gears; they all work together to keep you healthy and moving, and, when the gears get gunk-ed up or rusted, you’re basically fucked. The yoga and meditation is supposed to keep the internal cogs well oiled and running smoothly. Dean isn’t sure he believes it, that your emotions are tied to certain body parts or that certain things can shake up the shit you’re insecure about. He isn’t sure he buys it, but he almost has a panic attack the first time Cas has him do a heart-opening pose. Forget breathing regularly, he can’t breathe fucking at all: they have to stop until he feels less like his heart is gonna jump straight out of his chest. That’s nothing on the first time he does a hip opener (pigeon pose, if you’re curious, and, no, Dean still has no fucking clue why its called that; Cas who apparently spends time feeding actually pigeons in the local park or something, maintains that the name makes perfect sense) he cries. It’s the weirdest fucking thing and Dean has experienced some weird fucking shit. Cas is behind him, he’s pressing a gentle but firm hand against Dean’s lower back and another just between his shoulder blades. That feels good. Nice even. His hips hurt, ache, the muscles are tight as hell. Cas’ hands are a welcome distraction. He breathes in and out, in and out. Granted, he’s a little uncomfortable, and he’s contorted in a way no sane person should be, but there’s no reason for his eyes to suddenly start burning. He tries to ignore it, but the sensation spreads to his nose, and then there are tears, actual fucking tears, and he’s taking deep shuddering breaths and fucking sobbing. 

“What the fuck?” he gasps out, “What the fuck?”

“Dean,” Cas says helping him to sit up, placing two steadying hands on Dean’s shoulders, “you’re all right; you’re okay. Breathe with me.”

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean sobs, “Make it fucking stop.”

“It’s normal, Dean, this is perfectly normal,” his voice sounds sympathetic, but Dean can’t see his face, he’s too busy scrubbing at his eyes, trying to keep the tears in, but he fucking can’t, and he hates it, “you’re all right. You’re safe.”

Dean rides it out like that. First with Cas’ hands on his shoulders, then with Cas’ arms wrapped tightly around him. They breathe in sync, in and out together. Cas’ bare chest gets covered in Dean’s tears and snot, but he doesn’t seem to mind. When Dean’s calmed down enough, Cas helps him into final meditation and he leaves the room shaky, but better, with Cas’ hand against his arm. 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Dean and Cas do other things together besides yoga. They watch movies, they make dinner, they go grocery shopping and to the park. They visit the farmer’s market and wash the dishes and watch Doctor Sexy. They frequent local diners and go to the movies. 

They spar together sometimes. That’s Dean choice exercise. It’s practical, productive, and nothing relieves stress quite as well as hitting something. Cas is a fucking awesome partner—sparring partner. He’s good, he’s fucking beautiful to watch, and it’s fun to dance around each other. Dean calling challenges and teasing; Cas rolling his eyes and staying focused, though he occasionally cracks a smile and laughs. 

The yoga helps with other things. His fighting form is better; his balance, always good, improves. His joints hurt less, the falls hurt less. His kicks land with more ease. His knees, which had been steadily aching more, start to ease up on him. It’s nice. It really is. 

He learns more poses. Cas likes to theme their hours sometimes: they do Warrior and Hero and Eagle. Bow pose and Fierce pose and Child’s pose. Sometimes they listen to music, sometimes just the sound of each other’s breathing. Sam and Cas practice at a different time than Cas and Daen almost always, mostly because Sam doesn’t want to make Dean self-conscious and quit. To be fair: the one time all three of them did practice together, Dean was self-conscious and they ended up making fun of each other much to Cas’ annoyance. 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

After eight months of yoga with Cas, Dean feels lighter, happier, hell, he looks forward to that time they spend together, closed off in their own little world. That’s when things change. 

They follow their usual pattern: sun salutations and then some theme that Cas comes up with, standing poses, maybe a balance or two, emphasizing some random physical aspect that Dean wants to work on. Tonight they do twists. Cas likes twists, says that they’re cleansing and revitalizing. To be honest, the dude is part pretzel, and Dean finds it very distracting, or would if he weren’t struggling to mimic Cas’ frankly inhuman flexibility, and twisting himself into uncomfortable knots in the process. 

By the time they’re down on the mat again, Dean feels like a wrung out dish towel, his limbs are loose and heavy, and he’s looking forward to just collapsing back onto the floor. 

“It’s called corpse pose,” Cas had said weeks ago.

“Well, that’s not creepy.”

Cas shakes his head, “It’s supposed to remind you of the relationship between the physical and metaphysical; the fragility of life.”

“Right, creepy.”

But Dean gets it better now. He’s died a couple times, he’s dealt with his fair share of possession, he knows that the body is a meat suit: there’s something else rocking around inside that’s the real him and sometimes, when he’s lying there in the dark and the only thing that’s real is the sound of Cas’ voice and his own breathing, he thinks that he can feel that part of him, deep down inside. He gets it. 

Tonight, instead of telling him to lie down, Cas looks suddenly hesitant, unsure like he does whenever he wants to choose the dinner menu, or ask if they can buy a pumpkin for Halloween. It’s the look he gets when he wants to ask something for himself, but is afraid to, or doesn’t know how. This expression typically inspires Dean to take whatever Cas wants and do it to the extreme (Cas wants soup? He needs to make five flavors from scratch so Cas can choose his favorite. Cas wants a pumpkin? We should buy six: one for painting, one for carving, one for pie, one for decoration, and two extra for whatever else it is you do with pumpkins). 

“What’s up, Cas?” he asks.

“I’d like to try something different for our final meditation” he admits, his eyes shadowed and strangely earnest, “if you’d like.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate, “Sure.”

“Come here,” Cas says.

They sit cross-legged, close enough that they’re knees touch, Dean’s hands rest loosely on his knees, palms up. 

“Are you comfortable?”

Dean has to clear his throat before he speaks, the candles throw the hollows of Cas’ face into sharp relief, make his eyes suddenly bright, “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“May I touch you?”

“Uh,” Dean’s throat is dry; his skin tingles, “sure.”

Cas licks his lips. He places one hand on Dean’s wrist, and Dean automatically holds onto Cas’. Cas gives him a small smile, and squeezes gently, a thank you. He mimics the same hold with Dean’s other arm, but in reverse, so that Cas’ hand holds Dean’s wrist from below and Dean’s holds Cas’ from above. Cas tugs slightly so that their hands rest between them, on both of their knees, linked together. 

They’re faces are close. Dean catalogs Cas features. His lips are dry, his hair, still damp curls at his temples and the nape of his neck as it dries, there’s a nick on his cheek from where he cut himself shaving this morning and the stubble is already growing back, he has very thick eyelashes, Dean wants to lean forward and—. 

“Breathe with me,” Cas says. It isn’t a question; it’s a command. It’s an invocation, and Dean closes his eyes and breathes. 

He’s hyper aware of Cas hands, the way that they are linked together, but he’s also aware of himself: his heartbeat, his lungs, the way the air moves in and out, in and out. He can hear it, he can feel it, but he can hear Cas too, hear each inhale and exhale, feel the air against his face and his chest, the way it chills that sweat that still clings to his skin. 

In and out, in and out. Cas fingers rest against his pulse, and Dean’s rest against Cas’. He can feel his own heart beat, but he thinks he can feel Cas’ too, a steady thrum beneath his skin. Skin is such a flimsy barrier, such a small separation between Dean and Cas, linking Dean and Cas. Blood flows through Cas’ veins, it flows through Deans, and it feels, strangely, surely, that it’s flowing between them both. Their heartbeats find a rhythm, beat together. In and out. Back and forth. Dean and Cas. 

Dean’s skin tingles, like it did earlier, but the sensation starts to intensify and spread; it feels like static electricity, the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end as if there were a chill in the air, his skin rises in goose-bumps. In and out, in and out. He feels cold and hot. Cas’ breath and Dean’s breath. Together. Breathing. The world doesn’t exist outside of that. 

Warmth fills Dean’s chest, brightness, and it spreads outward, spreads through his arms, and up through his throat, down to his belly and out across his limbs. It’s white, he thinks, or gold, strange and familiar, and soft. It almost tickles, and it would probably freak him out, should probably freak him out, except Cas’ fingers are against his wrists and he can feel those points of contact, bright and clear. 

They’re like stars, he thinks distantly, like stars on a dark night when there’s no one around for miles and you look up and you can see constellations and galaxies and you feel so fucking tiny but so fucking big at the same time. Cas’ fingers are like galaxies, distant ones, that shine for thousands and thousands of years before they touch you with their light, and when they touch you, you feel it so deep that it’s like your heart might beat out of your chest with the joy of it, the impossibility. You feel like you don’t matter at all, because what’s one man to a fucking universe, to a galaxy, to eons and infinites, but you also feel like one man could be everything, that every second is precious because a star burns for you, from a million miles away it burns, just to reach out to you, just to touch you for a heartbeat, for a second, to make you feel like you might be enough. Cas is only touching his wrists; Dean knows that, but it feels like Cas is touching him everywhere, like Cas is surrounding him, blanketing him. Dean is a white light, soft, like a candle flame, but Cas is every color, is vivid and blinding, greens and blues and blacks and golds, silver and white and fuchsia, Cas is a galaxy and Dean can feel him all around, touching him, holding him, gentle and soft and…and loving, like the first day of spring, like a summer breeze, like miles of open highway and Zep on the radio and the windows down, like his mom’s apple pie. It’s light all around him, everywhere, all at once. He knows that he’s with Cas in the room. He knows that they’re touching. He knows that they’re breathing, beating together, but he feels so far away from that, feels something bigger than that, feels complete, feels full. 

He’s something else, too, he’s bright and he burns, and Cas is bright and burns with him, and he thinks that, somewhere, far away, he might be crying because he’s never felt something like, something like—he’s holding onto the colors, reaching for them, pulling them close, so that they’re all mixed up, so that they blend together, so that he wraps around and weaves through this thing that is Cas and he feels (and he’s not sure who or where or what this comes from), he feels like ‘finally’ and ‘yes’ and ‘us’ and ‘love’ and ‘peace’ and ‘together’ and ‘always’ and it’s so much, so full, so bright, like staring into the sun, like starbursts, and supernovas, and orgasms, and eclipses and everything and nothing and so much more. 

Dean breathes out. He opens his eyes. He’s shaking. He face is wet. He’s sweating. A quick glance down confirms that he definitely just came, untouched, in his pants. He probably should be embarrassed about that, but he literally can’t, it’s just, he can’t. Embarrassment is a foreign concept all of a sudden, and it definitely pales in comparison to the fact that Cas’ hands are still holding onto his wrists. 

Cas stares, his mouth parted and his eyes wide. There are tears in them. 

“I—,” he starts.

“Holy shit,” Dean whispers. 

He leans forward and presses his mouth to Cas’. That does not seem like a foreign concept. It seems like the easiest most natural thing in the world, a foregone conclusion, like coming home. Their hands are still linked, Dean can feel Cas’ pulse pick up speed, can hear his breath catch, and, best of all, he can feel when Cas starts to respond, kisses Dean back, fiercely, with tongue, and teeth, desperate, needy, wanting to be as close as he can. Dean can understand that feeling.

They break apart, breathing heavily. 

“Did you know that that could? Did we just have freaky yoga sex?”

Cas snorts and shakes his head, “I didn’t know that we would achieve the state we did. When we meditate, I can sometimes—” he hesitates, and the room may be dark, but not dark enough to hide his blush.

Dean squeezes his wrist because it seems impossible to lose his grip on Cas for even a moment right now, “What?”

“When I meditate I can, sometimes, perceive, higher planes, and sometimes when you meditate, when you relax, I can, not see you exactly, but sense you—your soul, Dean,” he clarifies when Dean frowns in confusion, “when I Fell I thought that,” he clears his throat, “that I wouldn’t see it again, see you again,” he squeezes Dean’s wrist, gently, reassuring but also a little bit afraid, “I thought that if we meditated together in closer proximity I would be able to, to feel you. It was selfish, I admit, I—”

“Whoa, time out,” Dean interjects, “that was, that was your soul?”

Cas ducks his head, shy, “As close as I have to one.”

“Shit, Cas,” Dean blurts out, “you’re fucking gorgeous.”

Cas’ eyes almost bug out of his head. 

Dean kisses him tenderly this time, reassuringly, loving, and Cas smiles. He looks happy, blissed out, and Dean thinks he could definitely get used to that.

“So we did just have freaky yoga sex,” Dean smirks.

Cas rolls his eyes, “Crude, but accurate.”

“It was awesome.”

“I agree.”

“What d’you say we go get cleaned up and then try it the old fashion way?”

“I think I would like that.”

“Awesome.”

They shower, and they make love for the first time (on the more physical plane) in Dean’s room. It’s slow and sweet, and, though Dean loved the stars and the lights and the galaxies, he loves the flesh and blood man above him just as much. They make pancakes at three am in the kitchen, Cas’ with blueberries and Dean’s with chocolate chips and they crawl back into bed, with Cas curled up around Dean, and Dean pressed back into Cas, so tightly wound together, that it’s almost impossible to discern where one begins and the other ends. Their heartbeats line up and their breathing evens together. 

“I love you,” Cas whispers in the darkness.

Dean smiles, there are tears in his eyes, all this hippie stuff must be making him go soft, he’s not sure that he minds. He presses a kiss to Cas’ palm, curls tighter into his chest. 

“I know,” he whispers back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read this! Comments are, as ever, deeply appreciated. I know this isn't my usual schtick so thanks for your patience. 
> 
> A few notes on meditation, yoga, and the tantric arts.
> 
> 1\. I have never had tantric sex (unfortunately) but I did do research on it in preparation for this fic. The spiritual 'sex' that Dean and Cas have is based partially on tantra meditation techniques and partially on some of the incredible soul/grace bonding fics that I've read.  
> 2\. I do practice yoga (and have for going on seven years) so the yoga stuff is taken from my own personal experiences as a yoga practitioner, student, and teacher.   
> 3\. I have had some very intense meditative experience with close friends in which we 'touched' on a different playing field beyond the physical one, it was very intense and I used that here. It's a hard experience to describe, which is why a lot of the writing is disjointed especially in that section.  
> 4\. It took me a really long time to be able to reach a meditative state even remotely close to the one that happens between Dean and Cas here, so I'm gonna chalk Dean's ability to reach that on his and Cas' profound bond and creative license. 
> 
> PS  
> Emi, if you don't like it. I will gladly write you another fic. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!


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